Except
by gwybodaeth
Summary: Sherlock's musings on the oddities of his brother's visit. Why did Mycroft sleep with Watson? Why did she sleep with him? Why did he care so much? And just what else might his shadowy brother be up to? Hints of Sherlock/Watson.


Yes, Mycroft had slept with Watson.

Yes, it rather annoyed him.

No, he did not want to think about it.

Except…

Except, here he was, engaged in the quiet observation of his rooftop apiary for the third day running. Laid before him was an entire society, a civilization in miniature; and while bees and humans differed greatly in the nature of their relations with each other, this was still his refuge on the infrequent occasions when he was puzzled by some anomaly of the human condition.

But there was no puzzle here. It had been revenge, pure and simple. He and his brother had never gotten along, their relationship growing more and more fraught until that day Mycroft had caught his brother and his fiancée in an embrace that was most definitely not fraternal. Interaction between them from that point on had been practically non-existent.

Which was strange. The motive for revenge was there, in proverbial spades. But why had Mycroft waited so long? It would seem much more logical to have taken his revenge years ago, instead of waiting nearly a decade to do so.

Of course, he would have expected it any sooner, been on his guard against it. And it wasn't as though there had been an overabundance of opportunity during that time, only one woman, in fact—and _she _would most certainly not have been amenable to Fatty's advances.

So revenge, then. Mycroft had played the long game, seen his chance, and exacted his retribution. The balance was restored, and they could go on racking up fresh grievances.

* * *

Except…

Except, his brother didn't _do _revenge.

Not once when they were children had Mycroft ever pursued revenge. He saw it as a tedious waste of time, an effort to curb undesired behavior that could be achieved through much more direct means.

This tendency became even more deeply engrained once Mycroft had entered his line of work. His brother might play at operating his stupid little restaurants, but he knew Mycroft's true occupation—intelligence. Fatty was, against all odds, one of the most powerful people in the British government—hell, considering the high turnover rate in most elected officials, it might even be said that Mycroft _was _the British government.

Whatever the case, one of the lessons of this work was restraint. Despite his pretentions, revenge was a dish Mycroft did not serve—cold or otherwise.

So not revenge, then. The next logical explanation to present itself was personal attraction, as Mycroft had claimed. He supposed it was as plausible as anything.

* * *

Except…

Except, except, _except_!

How he _hated _that word!

Except meant unknown. Except meant something missed. Except meant _failure_.

In this case, it was starting to wear. Personal attraction might have been a decent explanation, _except_ that his brother preferred stupid women when it came to bed-partners. Well, perhaps not preferred, exactly, but Mycroft's dedication to his job made him see intimate relationships as a risk, one he minimized by minimizing the intelligence of his romantic interests.

Admittedly, his fiancée had been an aberration, significantly above the average level of intelligence Fatty accepted in his companions. But then, she had defrauded an excessively-violent drug lord. And she had slept with him, more than once. On closer examination, she wasn't so intelligent after all.

But Watson—she was intelligent. The good doctor was naturally gifted, the most dangerous kind of intelligent for those who kept secrets (and Fatty kept secrets). Not to mention the little matter of Watson's apprenticeship under the only person who had ever successfully seen through his brother's machinations. Their view of the world was unique, coils within coils, wheels within wheels—and besides _The Woman_, Watson was the only person he knew who had a chance of matching either of them.

Quite a risk to take for the momentary enjoyment of (the admittedly very attractive) good doctor. And on the whole, Sherlock judged that Mycroft would have agreed with that assessment.

So it wasn't revenge, and it wasn't lust—Mycroft must have gotten _something _out of it. Fatty never did anything without a mind to potential outcomes and, more importantly, potential benefits. So what did this farce accomplish, besides engendering a significant and growing irritation on his part? What else—?

Wait.

It made him angry.

Yes, that was it! It _made him angry_! He was furious at Mycroft—but, what if it wasn't Mycroft he was supposed to be furious at? What if it was _Joan_?

He was reaching. And yet…Mycroft was a devious son of a bitch, and not above such callous disregard for Sherlock's happiness if it got in the way of something he wanted. And he did want something, didn't he? His brother obviously wanted him back in London, as, had he not, he would have simply delivered Father's ultimatum and left it at that. There was no need to give up his eminently comfortable Baker Street apartment.

Sherlock really should have known. He should have known better than to accept any gesture from Mycroft as mere brotherly affection, not when his brother never did anything without an end in mind. How convenient that Father dad been his usual, irascible self. How very fortuitous for…

Or perhaps he had been right, perhaps Father really was ignoring him, and his strategy of out-of-sight, out-of-mind was as successful as he had hoped. It seemed a very unpleasant telephone call was in order.

* * *

Some moments later, Sherlock shook his head and regrouped. He now believed he had uncovered his brother's motives for his most peculiar behavior. Unfortunately, there was not much he could do about it. Mycroft wanted him back in London, that much was clear—but with intentions fair or foul?

He had no way of knowing, and, as he had often told Watson, it was a wasted effort to speculate with insufficient data. Firmly, he shelved that particular puzzle for the time being. Regarding his bees once again, he allowed his mind to turn finally to what was _really _bothering him.

He knew now why Fatty had slept with Joan, but _why on earth _had she slept with _him_? And _why_ did he care so much?

Sherlock sighed and made himself comfortable, suspicious that he would be spending quite a bit of time up on the roof in the near-future.

**A/N:** As always, reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!


End file.
